


Perspectives~Chapter Two~Part Two: Already Over

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Two~Part Two: Already Over

**  
' **Already Over** '   
**

  
_You never go, you're always here (suffocating me) - Under my skin, I cannot run away_ **- Red**  


**7:45AM**

Dean hadn't even really been asleep for half an hour before his cell went off in his duffle, the muted clink-crack of it against his Colt 1911 alerting him to the call even before he had fully come awake. He leaned over, not even bothering to swipe at his sleep-lidded eyes before locating the cell with one practiced snatch, kicking the duffle shut even as he flipped the phone open to put it to his ear.

"Yeah?" he croaked, cracking one eye to shrug apologetically at Birch before turning his attention back to the phone, shoulders straightening at the sound of his name in his ear, even as he was slumped against the door, seeming for all the world relaxed and at ease. "Yeah, hey Bobby - how's it hangin'?"

"Whaddya mean, how's it hangin', boy? What are you and your idjit of a brother up to anyhow?"

Meant Bobby didn't know. And if Bobby had no idea that he'd hightailed it like a bitch and left Sam on his own, that meant he was in the clear - at least for right now. There was no way in fucking Hades he was going to tip his hand to this one. Bobby'd blow a gasket - then come find him and blow a hole a mile wide in his ass with a shotgun.

"Same as usual, you know how it is, Bobby."

"Yeah and I also know you're full of shit there, son. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine!" he hissed, embarrassed that he was being quizzed in front of a complete stranger - even if it was only over the phone and by Bobby Singer. "Why does everyone feel compelled to ask me that?"

The line went quiet for a moment and Dean could feel a flush of remorse creep over his cheeks, free hand coming up to rub absently at his eyebrow.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Bobby. Look, how I'm doin' is not important, okay? I'm...I'm coping - you know?" He sighed and straightened up, realizing further shut eye was not forthcoming anytime soon and needing this conversation over before Bobby copped to the fact he was flying solo over here. "Whatcha' got, Bobby?"

"Well..." Bobby was reluctant to let it go, but he figured he'd save Dean the embarrassment and himself from wasting a dime to only get hung up on by cutting straight to the chase. "There's a 'geist that's tearing up a small town in Illinois -"

Dean pulled his notebook out of his breast-pocket and reached down into his duffle again for a pen, mentally taking notes while he rummaged, careful to not let too much of the duffle's contents shift into Birch's sight. The old man kept his eyes on the road and seemed to all intents and purposes to be tuned out and Dean felt another surge of gratitude to this stranger who had chosen to go out of his way to be kind to someone who, for all he knew, was a walking billboard for trouble.

Thankfully the phone call didn't last long and Dean could only breathe a sigh of relief as Bobby hung up without his usual gruff and affectionate sign off. He really didn't feel up to hearing about how he should watch out for the guy who had no need of him anymore, if he ever really did. It only served to remind him that before all this mess, before demons and Hell and Lilith, he barely had a place on the planet much less with his family. And now, what little place he had was gone, erased slowly but surely over four very long months and by a whole span of things he didn't understand.

Not that he really wanted to, either.

Seems Sam wasn't the only one who changed while he was doing the Hellfire Rumba.

He slid his phone back into the duffle, debating internally on whether or not he was going to take the job as he zipped the worn canvas closed, fingers smoothing over the straps in an absent gesture. He sat back up, allowing his upper body to slump againt the door again, eyes shuttering closed in weariness and the wish to escape. Escape from what, he wasn't exactly clear on because wasn't he doing just that?

But then, how far did he get before he was found again?

Bobby's phone call disturbed and unsettled him on many levels. First (and the biggest) was the call itself. If Bobby didn't know there was something wrong before, he'd figure it out very soon. And by soon, he meant within the next 24 hours. All it would take was one phone call to Sam and his cover would be blown. He was hoping to buy enough time to get far enough away to go to ground - and that right there brought him to the next problem. If he didn't do the job -

If he didn't do the job.

He snorted to himself, knowing that to ask himself to look the other way, to _run_ the other way was a damned impossibility. Everything in him railed at the thought of abandoning more people to a nasty fate and he knew, Hell or no, alone or no - he couldn't turn his back on those people. So, the job it was. Next came the trick of doing it, getting out and not getting caught - by either Sam or Singer. Because if Bobby put two and two together, he would come up with pissed off - and Dean had seen that once up close and well, not _personal_ , but close enough to know he didn't want that brand of anger aimed at him. At least, where he could see it and it could whip up a shotgun on him.

He finally came to a semi-sleepy realization that there was someone else within the close confines of the truck's cab and that he had been nothing but rude the last ten minutes, if not the last hour. After all, you didn't fall asleep in another man's vehicle, take a phone call and then promptly ignore him without some type of explanation or apology at the ready. He could feel the headache from earlier creeping back in and wondered absently (for the fifth or sixth time) just why this man had let him into his truck. He didn't exactly scream 'Joe Normal' and if anything he probably looked more dangerous than your average Satanic, kills-puppies-on-the-weekend serial killer.

He was working himself up to speak, to apologize, to tell this man he wasn't always like this - uncaring, rude, selfish and obtuse - when Birch piped up, saving him from an embarrassing case of foot in mouth.

"Sounded like that was important. You got somewhere you need me to take you? I can always go to Corydon some other time..."

Dean's head snapped around to stare open-mouthed at the elderly man, left speechless by this little announcement, his brain scrambling to come up with words adequate enough to express his horror, gratitude and shame at the genuine offer - both of the aid and of his time. He blinked long and slow, his impersonation of a slack-jawed yokel ending abruptly as he straightened in his seat, fingers of his left hand coming up to fiddle with his silver ring in a nervous gesture, eyes everywhere but on Birch himself.

"No! I, um - you are almost there and - well, Corydon is uhhh, fine. You don't need to trouble yourself, I mean -" He stopped rambling and licked his lips, letting his hands fall in his lap, gaze drifting back towards the scenery as it whipped past, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. "I've been a rather rude guest, you know? I can't think of a way to thank you enough for just stopping and letting me ride with, so...there's no need for you to call a halt to your day, Birch. I can find my way there -"

"You tryin' to deprive an old man of an adventure, Dean?"

He must have gotten the response he wanted, because he smiled softly when Dean glanced in his direction, the young man's mouth quirking at the corners in reply to Birch's rough humor, the words harsh yet tempered with an absent fondness. He seemed to understand the heart of Dean's discomfort and dismissed it all with a croaky cough and a wave of one arthritic claw.

"You hain't been rude none, there, boy. It's been a hard morning - man needs a nap now and again, believe me I understand that! So you did me no harm by noddin' off - just saved yourself an earache from all the jawwin' I can get to doin' if I have an audience. And I must admit, you're a pretty captive one too, as it's kind hard to escape from a moving vehicle, I'm sure. Did yourself a right favor there." He grinned good-naturedly at his own quip, rheumy eyes twinkling with warmth and understanding before sliding back to the road, seemingly concentrating on blacktop that churned under the old Chevy's wheels - though Dean was quite sure this old guy never missed a trick.

"As for that phone call...well, as I said - seemed mighty important," he said shrewdly, his eyes glittering with a deep knowing for a mere moment. "And I'm not one to turn my back on my fellow man if he needs an assist, you get me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean responded, half ready to laugh or bolt, he just wasn't sure which. "I'm not the type to do so, either. I just don't want to put you out of your way. I'm sure you've got damned better things to do than drive some punk-ass around, wasting your gas and your time - when most people got little enough of both."

Birch cackled at that, eyes sinking into a sea of wrinkles for a moment before he shot back with, "Well, I already told you, son - I ain't most."

"Yeah, yeah you did." Dean grinned back, resigning himself to the man's offered hospitality. "Just don't blame me if you find my company lacking."

"Ahhhh." Another flap of the hand in a 'go on, there' gesture. "I just enjoy company - any sort'll do."

"Didn't figure you for one to be so hard up," Dean shot back, smile bleeding effortlessly into his voice as he bantered with the old man.

"Just not picky," Birch replied, his happiness at their exchange radiating off of him like sunshine. "Must have low standards."

Dean chuckled in appreciation at that, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he mulled over what Birch offered. It would make things faster and much easier, in a way. He'd be harder to track than if he just hopped a stolen car or two in and out of his destination. It would get him there and out in under twelve hours - which just left all of the USofA to get lost in within the next twenty-four.

He chewed his lip in thought, staring out at the buildings and bustling streets that had sprung up beyond his window, pretending to debate with himself, but already knowing the answer without half trying. He was still just stunned that the old man had offered - though in retrospect, with all that he had learned in under one short hour or two, he really shouldn't be. He felt an odd kinship with Birch, almost like they were destined to meet - and if fate and destiny had taught him anything, it was to not take such meetings lightly, nor turn away from them when they crossed his path. He was unused to asking for help, or accepting aid when it was offered, but Hell had a way of humbling you and fast. It wasn't like he was in a position to be choosy and it looked like the old man was just as pleased with their new found acquaintance as he was. In the end, it really wasn't a hard decision at all, if you had pride step out of the way for once.

He glanced over at Birch, noting how the man seemed to take his silence for what it was and left him to it, just as relaxed and easy as you please behind the wheel of his crumbling Chevy, though his eyes were as sharp and deep as they must have been as a young man. Yup, this guy never missed a trick all right - which left Dean to wonder (yet again) just what he saw in a hitching vagabond by the side of the road that made him feel compelled to stop and help him. Maybe, as they traveled, he'd ask. Then again, Birch was a rather chatty creature, he might not have to ask at all.

"So!" the old farmer boomed, looking pleased when Dean only startled a fraction. "Have you decided?"

The old rogue already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear it out of Dean's mouth, his eyes shining with what looked like joy, maybe even hope - and Dean found he couldn't deny the old buzzard his adventure.

"Only if you are sure you want to throw your lot in with me," he replied, his own eyes shining for the first time in what felt like forever. "It's a bit out of the way - as in waaayyy out of the way, but hey, it's your gas, old man."

His words slipped out flippantly, earmarked with a shrug and a raising of his eyebrows, watching out of the corner of his eye as Birch's tiny smile widened into a grin, a small cackle barking out of his throat as he relaxed back into his own seat, his grip on the wheel loosening as he shot a mischievous look at Dean. The old guy looked as if Dean had made his week just by saying yes and that alone was worth swallowing his pride to accept the help that was given so freely.

"My gas for now, young man - yours at the next gas station. Oh! And the coffee's on you, too."

"Fair enough," Dean laughed, settling in to enjoy the ride. "So - do you need to know where we are going? Or do you just plan on riding all around the states with me?"

"Well, maybe you'd better run it by me - I'm not as good at eavesdropping as I was in my younger years," Birch replied.

Dean told him the township and they bickered lightly for the next five minutes on how to best get there as Birch pulled into the nearest gas station to fuel up, laughing as he crowed over the 'free gas and coffee' he'd be consuming on Dean's dime.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Chuckles," Dean grumbled half-heartedly, making a show of pulling out his wallet and clapping the dust off of it as he ambled into the store, step lighter than it had been just a mere few hours ago. He banished all thoughts of Sam, Bobby, the job and plans for the future out of his head, intent on enjoying the open road and his new friend - even if it was just for this next little while.

He knew, if anyone did, that sometimes you just had to take those small moments and make them last - you never know when you might see them again.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **Bobby  
7:52AM**

Bobby hung up, a scowl of worry creasing the deepening lines on his face as he placed the phone carefully on the edge of the desk, hand coming back up to yank at the brim of his hat, resettling it absently as he worked over his conversation with Dean in his head.

It wasn't so much what he heard as what he _didn't_ hear that got his alarms going off.

For starters, it was the background noise or lack thereof that bugged him. He could hear that Dean was in a moving vehicle, but it sounded...off. Then there was the fact that the noise indicated it was moving - not sitting still - and from the way Dean was talking and muttering to himself, he was taking notes. Now, all of this could mean that Sam was driving - but there was no rock music, no interruption to their talk like there usually was with Sam. If the boy couldn't get the info directly himself, he had a habit of asking random questions in the middle of a call leaving Dean to split his attention two ways. And if the boys had had a fight, Dean would have sounded more tense, words bitten off and caustic - but there was none of that either. Dean sounded tired, distracted almost, but not angry or tense...well, not fight-tense anyhow. Seemed Dean was tense and edgy more often than not these days, but that was perfectly understandable considering the boy had just been dragged from Hell not but a month and a half before.

There were plenty of good reasons for Bobby to let this go. Too many variables and too much time passed since Dean's little trip Downstairs - things could change and radically in such a very short period of time. A lot of things.

But it didn't stop his gut from worrying him 'bout most to death on this one.

He sat for a few more minutes, turning it over like a puzzle in his mind, stripping the conversation apart and piecing it back together, looking at it from a variety of angles - but he still couldn't find that little cog that didn't quite fit, that couldn't be explained away. It just... _sat_ there, cold and heavy in his middle that something was wrong. Something was very wrong and it was so simple that he missed it by a mile.

At eight o'clock he dragged his ass out of his desk chair, sighing as his spine creaked ominously at him and got started on his day, putting the boys and what ever trouble they might be in towards the back of his head, letting his sub-conscious have a chew on it for a while as he fielded orders, scrap calls, ritual requests and other detritus that filled his days (and some of his nights) as the mild-mannered owner of Sioux Falls only junk and auto graveyard. He toyed with the notion of calling Dean back, or even Sam, but let it go as soon as he thought it. The job was being handled, that was all that mattered.

It was well past lunch and going on towards the mid-afternoon when he thought about it again, _really_ thought about it - and that was only because his phone rang and something deep inside (that same clawed, cold whisper of something that told him Dean had, in fact not escaped Hell's clutches - and was right) told him it was one of the boys, and that some Deep Shit had landed on one or the other of them.

He cursed the urge that had made him drop it earlier and bitched all the way to the phone, calling himself nine kinds of fool and much, much worse as he answered, heart thrumming high and hard in his chest.

"Singer," he bit out, fear and uncertainty making him sound harsher than he intended.

"Bobby?!" Sam's voice wavered through the line, the pitch this side of thin and soft which meant nothing but pain and fear and too much of it besides.

Singer felt his feet go out from underneath him and he was grateful he had left his phone on the kitchen table as his ass would have just kept going till it met floor otherwise. Not that landing hard in a high-backed kitchen chair was any fucking treat, either.

"Bobby!" Panicked now.

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm here boy -" he croaked out, but got no further as true to form, Sam plowed on ahead at fifty miles an hour, a shaky thrum of something-not-good trebling his voice and making him sound all of twelve again. Bobby could feel his insides clench, cold and thick, his limbs like lead as he struggled to decipher what Sam was babbling, that thin thread of alarm coming back to haunt him.

"-don't know where he is! I've rung his phone off the hook - I've called every fucking hospital from here to the next county, _shit_ \- I've called the fucking _cops_ , Bobby! I'm two seconds away from calling the Feds, but as far as they know we're dead and dammit, he'd kill me spreading his description like the fucking plague but goddammit Bobby I have no fucking _idea_ where the hell he is!! The fucking Impala is outside so he can't have gone far, but the bars are closed and it's been... _hours_ , Uncle Bobby - fucking **hours**! And I don't know what to do - _please_...you gotta help me..." That last came out as a sob and Bobby's heart stuttered in his chest at the sheer panic, fear and utter loss in Sam's voice. The fact that Sam Winchester called him Uncle Bobby also shook him - Sam only called him that when in deep distress or feeling particularly playful - and he didn't sound exactly playful right now.

He glanced at the clock, startled that it was only 2:30pm and then bugged by the fact that yeah, it was only 2:30pm - and wait...did he say the Impala was outside their room? Then what -

"Wait - Sam...Sam slow down. Deep breath, son, that's it. Now - begin at the beginning -"

"- and when you come to the end, stop." Sam blew out a shaky breath, but a smile surfaced in his tone at their old joke, sounding a little calmer now that Bobby had control of the phone call. "Okay...okay. It kinda uhhh, started this morning?"

Bobby almost smiled himself at Sam's last statement, the question tagged at the end of it like he was asking permission for something. Sam always got that way when unsure or worried, usually when he was in trouble with his dad or brother and he needed to be reassured that he wasn't gonna get his ass kicked by all and sundry. It was a tone he used rarely lately and it almost warmed Singer to hear it again.

"Okay, good place to start. What happened this morning, Sam?" He waited patiently for the answer, knowing that when Sam felt he was in deep shit or cornered it could take a few minutes to get anything out of him. Must have learned that trick from his brother - boy could clam up faster than a hooker not getting paid when he got the notion and Sam was a quick study. Learned a lot of bad habits from Dean, he had.

About Dean -

"Sam?" he prompted, feeling time was of the essence here after all - and they didn't have a lot of it to dally about with.

"Well, uhhhh...I snuck out - and Dean, ummm, he caught me - and well...things kinda went downhill from there," Sam supplied reluctantly, his squirming obvious even over the phone. He blew out a breath and Bobby could almost see him on the other end of the line, perched on the edge of his bed, left foot jiggling as he leaned down on his right leg with the phone jammed to his ear like it could hold him up, left hand swiping through the messy tangle of bangs across his forehead. What Dean called his 'Sammy is thinking/constipated/being a girl' position.

Singer almost grinned at the image and at the elder Winchester's snark ringing through his head, but caught himself before it could translate across the phone, clearing his throat so he could put some stern forcefulness behind his next set of words, get that stubborn ass of a Sammy Winchester to cooperate with him while he pumped him for information.

"Okay - stop right there, Sam. What do you mean 'snuck out' and what do you mean 'got caught' and 'downhill from there'," he gruffed, knowing Sam would respond best to 'Take Charge Bobby' better than 'Freaking Out and Pissed Bobby' - the latter was apt to have a Winchester (any of 'em) digging in their heels automatically, whether it was good for them or no. He berated himself for the five millionth time for getting involved with the Winchesters again, but dismissed it just as quick. At least these boys kept him sharp - he had missed that during the four years he and John hadn't talked.

And sometimes he missed that old ornery bastard too - like a toothache that wouldn't _quit_ , but one that you got used to over time.

Sam sucked in a breath on the other side of the line, steeling himself to talk, but his reluctance telling Bobby he wasn't going to get much, if anything at all - just enough to give him a vague notion of what had happened and how it all went down. Just enough rope to get the noose started but not hang himself with.

Damned Winchesters and their damned secretive ways.

"I uhhh, went to get rid of a demon and well...Dean was sleeping so I kind of, uhhh, left?"

" _Dammit_ , Sam -"

"I know!! I _know_ , okay? But...well there's a whole lot there I can't get into," typical evasive tactic, "- so just...just go with me on this, alright?"

And Bobby could feel it - if he didn't play along, Sam would hang up and leave him as high and dry as he did...what was it, five months ago?

Felt like five years...or five days - he wasn't really sure.

"Okay, Sam...alright, just tell me what happened - what you think you can and we'll go from there, right?" Soothing, like the type of voice you use on a spooked horse. Sometimes he felt like a fucking yoyo with this frigging family -

 _But it's oh-so-worth it._

"You hearin' me, boy?"

"Yeah - yeah, okay Bobby," Sam replied, taking a deep breath before launching into what had happened less than eleven hours before.

It took only a minute or two, but to Singer it seemed hours. He heard what _wasn't_ being said, how far the wedge between the two of them sunk and he wondered if it had happened before Dean had even went to Hell. It seemed his brother's miraculous save from the Pit hadn't stopped Sam from the secret activities that had driven him from Bobby's house months before, and those activities were exactly what he was hedging about, Bobby was damned sure.

So Sam had snuck out to do God knows what, Dean had followed and _seen_ that God knows what - and now here they were, trying to find a man who had been trained in how to cover his tracks by one John Winchester and no one had any idea what tricks he had picked up in Hell. Now he just had to tell Sam about the phone call he made this morning - the one that Dean had answered. He didn't know what the boy was doing now - shit, what he had been doing this morning, but he had a nasty feeling that Dean had done the one thing neither of them had ever thought of.

But it was best to not jump to conclusions here. Could be that Dean just was having himself a little daytrip away from Sam, either to get himself under control or throw a scare into him. Hell, maybe a bit of both, though Dean wasn't known for being vindictive that way. That little voice in the back of his head was wrong - it had to be wrong.

"And...and he left and I figured he went and blew off steam somewhere - or just went straight back to the hotel. Nothing seemed out of place, you know? Figured he'd ream me out this morning - but...his bed hasn't been slept in and there are no bars within ten miles of here. So, I thought maybe he went for a walk and either got hit by a car, or got on the wrong end of a fight - so I called his cell, which goes straight to voicemail and you know how he never turns the damned thing off. Then I called the hospitals, the morgues, the-the cops - no sign of him!"

From the jiggling of the line, Bobby guessed that Sam was now pacing, his agitation forcing him to move - yet another habit he had picked up from Dean.

"Sam there's somethin' I have to tell ya'."

Bobby waited for a reply, but it seemed Sam was either not listening, or had dropped the phone.

"Sam?"

Silence on the other end, not even any breathing - and in the background...was that the sound of keys? Bobby's stomach knotted with dread as his internal alarm spiked and then went quiet. Now he knew for sure. He knew why Dean had sounded so off earlier this morning. He hadn't been in a taxi, or a girl's car, or sitting beside Sam going to the next job as he had told himself all morning. He had done the unthinkable in his world, the one thing that Bobby was sure he would never have done of his own free will. Dean was -

"Bobby..." Sam sounded breathless, shocked - his voice thin and reedy. Seems like he had figured it out on his own. "The _keys_ -"

"Sam -"

But Sam wasn't hearing him. The sounds of drawers being slammed open and closed drifted over the line, accompanied by the youngest Winchester's panicked, uneven breathing.

" _Fuck_! His duffle! His duffle is gone! What the fucking _hell_ , Bobby?!" Sam rasped, his voice hoarse and close to tears. " Nononono-no-no- _NO_! He didn't! Please tell me he didn't!"

"Sam -"

" _Fuck_!!" he screamed, as Bobby flinched away from the phone, an idea kindling in his head. "Fucking _stupid_ sonuva - ! What the fuck was he _thinking_? What the fuck?!"

" _Sam_!"

" _What_?!"

"Boy - I'm gonna tie a knot in your friggin' tail if you use that tone with me again! Now, calm down - I think I have an idea where he is going."

"Where? _Where_?" The pain and desperation oozed through the line like a disease and Bobby's heart did another thick slow thump in his chest. Damned Winchesters. They were going to fucking kill him one of these days. "Bobby, please, I -"

"Hang in there son, gimme just a second," he replied, sounding calmer than he felt. Dean had a good head start on them , but if they timed this just right...

He rummaged across the mess on his desk for the proper address as he talked, trying to keep Sam (and himself) cool and collected as he told him about the phone call he had made earlier that morning - and what that phone call was about.

"This morning, early too, I called Dean with a job -"

"What?! _Bobby_ -"

"Now boy, I had no idea what was goin' on! Hush and let me tell you where he's going and why!"

"Yes, Bobby, okay...sorry."

"That's okay, Sam," he said kindly, knowing the panic the kid was going through was practically killing him. Shit, it wasn't doing wonders for Bobby, either.

"Okay - I've got the address." He rattled off the exact location for the poltergeist haunting in Peoria, Illinois and waited for Sam to say he had it before laying out the gameplan.

"Alright - I say we come at him from both directions, okay?" Sam hummed a confirmation - and from the various shuffling sounds in the background, he could tell he was packing up to move - and fast. "I'll meet you there. I'll have to break the speed limit and hard to get there - but we should be able to catch him either in the middle of the job, or leaving town. I'll see you there - okay, Sam?"

The noises paused for a moment and he could hear Sam struggle not to break, his breathing rapid and strained.

"Th-thank you, Uncle Bobby. I just...I can't believe..."

"It's alright, Sam - I'm sure he'll feel nine kinds of foolish when we catch up with him. You know how he gets now and again - we'll just...tie him to a chair and talk some sense to him."

He could see Sam nodding in his head, the boy would do things like that - get so involved in a conversation he'd forget you were not standing right there.

"Hey - hey, Sam - at least we know he's safe, right? Nothing grabbed him, he's not hurt." So far, anyway. "We'll find him, okay? Everything will be just fine."

"Yeah, Bobby," Sam said quietly. "Everything will be just fine."

The next sound was a click in his ear and he sat there for a few minutes, phone glued to his ear, dial tone sounding an empty line while he tried to breathe.

Damn Winchesters.

After he had gotten himself somewhat under control, he started to move, grabbing his prepacked hunting bag (courtesy of dealing with the boys again) and headed to his car, stowing his pistol under the seat and his cellphone in the cupholder before turning her over, the rumble of the engine making him pause for a moment. He wondered how he had missed it this morning, shit how he had dismissed the strange phonecall itself, when the Impala's rumble was so distinctive. He should have called Sam right then, he should have done a lot of things, really - like pay better attention to his boys, to the things they weren't saying or doing - instead of pretending he was so far removed from it all.

Hopefully, he would get the opportunity to set it all right before the the day was over. It was obvious they all had things they needed to sit down and discuss - Bobby included. He needed to let these boys know how much they meant to him - he may not be their father, but he loved them all the same. It was about high time they knew that, too.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _He had no idea what to do from here._

He didn't dare leave, in case Sammy came back - but he couldn't afford to stay here either.

Two days.

Two days of calling various hospitals, morgues, police districts and his friends. Two days of fear, of terror really - and if CPS wasn't on their tails now, they would be soon with all the frantic calls he had made all over the county, looking for his missing fourteen year old brother.

His brother who had packed up everything that he owned and snuck out in the early AM a mere two days ago, leaving Dean paralyzed for the first few minutes with horrible thoughts of kidnapping, rape and murder while he stood in the door way of Sam's bedroom, spatula dripping egg all over the floor.

He threw the pan out with the eggs still in them. Then proceeded to make phone calls - a lot of them, in a very short period of time.

He knew Sam wasn't at the school (it was the middle of summer), or the library or a friend's house. After he had searched Sam's room for signs of forced entry, he had discovered all of his things missing, with only a few odds and ends left behind that Sam felt he hadn't needed. One of those things he had left was the hoodie that Dean carried with him everywhere like a lifeline, or an anchor, the soft linen crumpled from the grip of his fist, stained where his sweat had soaked through and made a semi-permanent mark on the cloth.

He prowled (there was no other word for it) endlessly, restlessly around the house, running on little else that leftover adrenaline and stale coffee, all thoughts of food banished to the back of his head. It wasn't that he didn't fix meals - he fixed them, setting up plates for two and doling out whatever meager fixings he could eek out of their depleted fridge between the two, only to throw away the food hours later as it congealed to the cracked, smudged surfaces that laughingly were called porcelain. He couldn't handle the thought of food, barely could tolerate the smell of it as his stomach churned with the need to move, to find Sam, to fix whatever was wrong - what made him run away.

God, Dad was gonna lose _it!_

When he wasn't prowling, pacing or making frantic phonecalls, he pretended to rest, to sleep. He was damned sure, though, that laying tensed on top of the sheets, every muscle trembling from exhaustion as he fought to stay awake, ears tuned to any sound within the house - counted as anything but rest or sleep.

He was running on empty by the time Dad came home, his reserves depleted after 48-56 hours of sheer nervous strain, ready to bolt, snap or come apart at the slightest push.

Too soon – or maybe, not soon enough – John Winchester came home, back to the rinky-dink shambling shack they called home at the moment. A blast of insane heat from the outside followed close on his heels as he tore through the door and Dean wondered, briefly (already sure he was insane) if this was Hell – because it sure as shit felt like it. He hadn't dared to call him, to pull him off of the trail of the creature he was tracking for his fuck up, but one look at Dad's face and he knew that had been a mistake.

He knew _._

Somehow, some way, he knew – and he crossed the fifteen feet between them in two strides, face hardening even as his eyes darkened with fear. It was all there in the set of his jaw, the pull of his eyebrows, though Dean didn't need to see any of this to know he'd fucked up. Now it was time to own up and pay the piper.

"Where _, Dean?" he growled, moving to step into his eldest son's space, though hovering just on the edge of it, as if afraid to be contaminated by his failure._

Dean said nothing. There was nothing to say – no information to give here, so he did the only thing he could. Keep silent.

"Fuck _! God_ dammit _, Dean – can't you do_ anything _–" He bit down on the last bit of that sentence, breath leaving him in a furious rush as he turned away, throwing his duffle across the room, barely watching where it landed before he was back in Dean's space again. "When? How long?"_

"Dad –"

"Don't you even fucking –! How long _?!"_

"57 hours," he breathed, not sure how his lungs were still functioning, air moving past his vocal cords with the weight of this disaster pressing down on him. "Two and a half days…Dad, I –"

"Shut. Up _. Shut your fucking mouth – let me think," John rasped, fear deepening his growl to a roar, unable to look at his remaining son, his anger and disgust eclipsing all thought and reason._

"Have you –"

"Called everywhere," he replied wearily, standing tall even as his insides folded from the look on his father's face. "Everywhere _, Dad – I couldn't leave in case he came back, but…"_

Dean shook his head, knowing these were all excuses – he shouldn't have let Sam run away in the first place. The rest was just compounding the problem – and most of the problem was him. He should have been more alert, more on the ball – of all people he knew that – but he didn't hear him leave, see him leave, stop him. And now God knows what had happened to him.

John shook his head, the ridged line of his shoulders telling Dean everything and nothing all at once, the air heavy with rage and disappointment. He still wasn't prepared when John turned to face him, the look of anger, of fury really and the deep lines of resigned knowing almost too much to take. He thought he saw loathing in his father's eyes when they darted over his face, hatred steeped in the sad quirk of his mouth and he shuddered against it, hoping against hope that he imagined that look.

This was so much worse than what had happened with the Shtriga, so much worse and he found he could almost accept his father's hate, his rage, as he had nothing left inside for himself but that. He had only one job – one job – and he had screwed it up.

Again _._

"Dean, you –" John began, mouth thinning under three days growth of beard, his countenance weary and determined, shoulders straightening as he (forced himself to) look into his eldest son's eyes. "You fucked up, you know that, right?"

Dean couldn't speak with the weight of his failure crushing him, so he nodded, swallowing hard against the darkness in his father's gaze. It was like looking at a stranger. Worse, even - it was like seeing a stranger reflected back at him. It was almost as if Dad didn't know him. As if he didn't want to know him – and he could feel his heart stutter to a halt before resuming its frantic tattoo against his ribs, a small, twisted voice inside wishing it would stop altogether – anything, anything to keep his father from looking at him like that.

"I trusted _you. I trusted you to take care of your brother. This is not the first time I have found that trust misplaced, have I?"_

Dean sucked in air against his teeth, shock shaking him down to his very bones. That day had never been mentioned, never been hinted at – and now here it was, all laid out on the table, his sin of complacency dragged screaming to the light to be examined, picked over and tossed at his feet.

"You know…you know what you have to do, right?" Calm, his anger seething below the surface of gentleness, waiting for him to open his mouth and destroy whatever was left between them.

He dropped his gaze, unable to look him in the eye, unable to trust his voice as he nodded to the floor, his father's glance too searing and too filled with disappointed resignation.

He suppressed a gasp as the front of his shirt was clutched with an iron grip, his back slamming into the weak plywood-drywall combination behind him as John's rage found an outlet – his son's quiet acceptance an open door for his wrath. A fist sailed past his face and embedded in the wall, breaking through with collapsing thunder and he wondered if Dad had pulled his punch at the last moment, knowing Dean needed to be upright and moving if he was to salvage the mess he had created. That thought was wiped away as the fist withdrew from the wall in a shower of plaster, the fingers in his shirt tightening as he was lifted from the floor, toes tagging the dust at his feet, shaken like a puppy until he looked up into the detached ire that danced in his father's face.

"I didn't hear anything, Dean."

"Yes," he rasped, voice raw with fear and sorrow. "Yes, I know what I have to do."

John released him and to his credit, he didn't stumble when he regained his footing. If he had, his father would have been on him like a snake on a mouse and he knew it. Finding Sam be damned, John would have had his retribution first.

"Then," softly, silky with anger. "Why are you still here?"

The grip on his shirt was released and he went directly on autopilot, gathering his duffle with only a mild hesitation when he grabbed the Impala keys, afraid that his father would make him go without her. He had almost made it to the door when John's rumble cut through the quiet of the living room, his tone still silky and dark, his barely controlled rage bleeding through the angles of his voice.

"Dean."

"Y-yeah, Dad?" Hand on the doorknob, not daring to even turn around and look.

"You know what happens if I find him first - or if he's dead."

Dean could feel his insides curl in cold protest, a sweat breaking out between his shoulderblades. He knew...he knew and he'd eat a bullet first.

"You have two weeks, Dean. Find him - or..."

Or don't bother to come home again.

He nodded once and beat feet, fear and sorrow throbbing a steady tattoo against the tattered walls of his chest.

Roger.

Loud and clear.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **11:14AM**

It felt good to get out and stretch his legs. The truck was a thing of ancient beauty, but she was hard on the body for long drives, so when Birch (or 'Twig' as he insisted he be called) pulled over at a rest stop just outside of Peoria, complaining that Dean's 'coffee is runnin' right through me' (never mind that they had made three stops for said coffee) he was more relieved than irritable about it. He needed to catch his breath, clear his head some and figure out what he was going to do from here.

What he was going to do after the job.

Because he was going to do the job, he didn't really have a choice by this point - he just hoped they didn't catch up to him. He had plenty of leadtime, but something deep inside told him that it wouldn't last long, not at all - and he just wasn't ready. He didn't know if he ever would be. Having your utter lack of usefulness, of being needed (of being _Dean_ again) rubbed into your face. Well, it was too raw, it was too much - especially when memories of Hell were creeping eerily close to the surface, making his reality _here_ too surreal and almost gray in comparison.

He fingered the second sim card in his pocket, a small smile on his face as he thought back to Sam's ingenious idea of evading Gordon by switching out the cards in their phones. It hadn't worked, but it was a helluva plan and it should have worked to all intents and purposes. They'd just under-estimated the enemy and how well he had learned the Winchesters and their ways.

Didn't stop Dean from using that trick the first stop they made, buying two cheap throw aways (what he always thought of as burn phones) and switched out the sim card in the rest room while Twig filled up at the pump. He even chuckled while he did it, crushing the old card under his boot before flushing it down the toilet, wondering if Sam would even think that Dean remembered. Sam was always so damned smart, always thinking, always improvising - even before he went to school he had known what he had wanted, always had.

Even then Sam was forging ahead, thinking ahead, making himself fit into a life without his brother. Dean could dig it, Sam had been doing that since he had first learned to walk - just took Dean almost his whole lifetime (not to mention however long he had been dead) to wrap his head around it. But that was _his_ problem, not Sam's. Seems he had a lot of problems that had nothing and yet everything to do with his brother. And since he could no longer be Dean, be the big brother - it was high time for him to take his stupid shit elsewhere. Because if he couldn't be the man that Sam could trust, confide in and lean on, then he had nothing. He _was_ nothing.

And the last thing he needed, the last thing _Sam_ needed - was another weight around his neck.

He rolled his shoulders, trying his damnedest to shrug off the maudlin turn of his thoughts as he strolled over the open park-like area of the rest stop, his boots crunching through the powdery fall of leaves scattered across the washed out green of the lawn. He wanted to turn on his phone, call Sam and make sure he was okay. Call him and beg for his forgiveness at being such a girl and crawl back to his brother's side, but he knew he couldn't. What he had seen...there was just no turning back from that. He didn't fully understand it, wasn't sure he wanted to understand - but if he stayed with Sam, let his baby brother talk his way around this utter betrayal, it would all slide straight to Hell and he'd let it. God help him he would and he wouldn't think twice about it, either.

So he walked, stretching his legs, letting his thoughts flow into a beautiful hum of nothing as he played with the flap of his cellphone, almost afraid to turn it on, but knowing this was the perfect opportunity to make the necessary phone calls to get this case rolling. Because if he walked in there unprepared, it only gave them more time to catch up - and gave him less time to get away clean in the middle of a job. He needed to focus and thinking about Sam was distracting. It was a hard habit to break, but it was one that needed breaking.

"Focus, dammit. _Focus_. Poltergeist, two people killed, poltergeist, two people killed."

He found he was walking a figure eight around the small clearing, eyes on the toes of his boots as he shuffled through what few facts he had gleaned from Singer's phone call and how he was going to go about getting more information without putting himself in line to get caught by Sam or Bobby. Phone calls alone generally didn't cut it, people wanted to see who they were talking to, get a face fixed in their minds when giving out information that they would normally not give to anyone outside their professions, if at all. There were always ways around this of course, the standard methods that any hunter employed to be able to do the job.

Usually he would go to the library and look up the history of the house there or even to the courthouse if the library didn't keep such information, though that might not be possible with him being on the run and all. Then there was the sticky problem of getting around city hall and the burial records of whoever was kicking up the shit inside the house - something that also generally required you to show your face. But showing his face in this instance meant that he only got closer to being caught - it gave them times, locations and a whole host of other advantages that made his head ache and his mind weary. He had to find a way around all of that, stop the spirit from causing more problems and get the fuck out before Sam and Bobby caught wind of him, because dammit - they would know sure as shit he was going to do this job, hell they would _count_ on it - and he had to assume that they already knew what he had done, that he had tucked his tail between his legs and run away like a fucking pussy.

Thinking of it like that made him disgusted with himself all over again. What was he thinking? That if he ran off it would solve everything? That he could even stay away? In the warm light of the growing afternoon, his decision seemed rash, foolhardy even. Sam was all he had, all he knew - if he just abandoned him like that...

' _Like he's abandoned you, time and time again_?'

"Shut up," he muttered to himself, the staggered figure eights he was walking unconsciously drawing tighter together. Pace, pace, pace, turn. Pace, pace, pace, turn. "Just shut up."

' _Make me_ ,' his inner voice snarked, but fell silent almost obediently, though he hardly had time to draw a breath of relief when an image swam into his mind's eye - the look on Sam's face when he saw him, when he knew he was caught. The disgust, the resignation and the 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' air that he wore around him like a shield. It was bad enough, what he had been doing - but the way he looked at Dean.

Like he was a stranger - or worse, an enemy.

"Fuck." He halted his errant, bedraggled pattern across the six by six patch of grass, dropping his chin to his chest as he tried to pull himself together, stop that relentless ache from spreading through his chest, blindly studying the mashed and torn destruction his boots had left behind.

It was time to improvise.

Understatement of the year. And a flatout joke. Sam was the thinker, the guy fast on his witty feet, Dean was just...he was Daddy's blunt little instrument, wasn't he? And a fat lot of good it had done him over the years. Maybe it was time to change his spots so to speak, allow his brain instead of his mouth do his thinking for him. He let his thumb graze over the sharp plastic/metal chip in his pocket, as if rubbing it could get his grey matter gears out of neutral.

A plan, he needed a plan.

' _Think fast, asshole._ ' That small, nasty-tempered voice taunted, and before he could will enough breath to mutter for it to fucking shut it already, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Twig was coming out of the visitors building, an crumpled ancient roadmap clutched in his right hand, heading towards him, his gait pretty spry for a man of his years.

Dean blew out a breath and dragged his gameface on, shoving Sam and all his stupid, overly complicated baggage to the back of his head where it belonged as he dredged up a smile for the old man, feeling alarmingly pleased to see him, though he had only known him mere hours. He tried to not examine that too closely, his sudden fondness for an average civvie, but it made a nice distraction from his brain chewing itself to death over the hot water he had gotten himself into.

"Hey Twig, you about ready?" he called out when Birch was in range.

"As I'll ever be! We're about fifteen minutes out from the city. I just have to get it figured on where exactly we're going."

"Well, let me hit the head and we'll hash it out, okay? We might get lucky and not have to hit any main roads. I hate trying to drive in a city during lunch hour," Dean grinned. "Takes forever to get anywhere."

"Well, I'll meet you in the truck, young man - just don't take forever, okay? You ain't gettin' no prettier, I assure you."

"Oh-ho!" Dean laughed, pleased when Birch's eyes twinkled mischief at him. "I'll be sure to hurry up. You wanna grab another coffee on the way out of here?"

"Naw, just a coke outta the machine - you want one?"

"Sure, Twig - just a regular one. I have no need to watch my girlish figure," Dean snarked, anticipating the old man's retort before it happened. Birch only looked slightly put out at being beaten to the punchline, his grin crooked as he swaggered to the vending area, digging change out of his pocket. Dean spun thoughtfully on his heel, starting off on the same path Twig had just come from, laughing under his breath at Twig's parting shot -

"No more'n two shakes there, punk!"

He threw him a thumbs up, other hand shoved in his pocket, playing with the sim card, pulling it out and letting it roll over and around his fingers as he walked. It always helped when he let himself detach, let his mind roll the problems he had in front of him over and around (like the card in his fingers) without any aid from him - having something in his hands while he did this usually let him disconnect and let it happen, and this time was no different. He had barely hit the front doors, making a beeline for the men's room when the ideas started to form, then take cohesion in his mind. Now he had a plan and a way to execute it - if Twig would help him just one more time. Asking would be harder than getting the actual help, he knew - but this was the new Dean, right? He had the means, he had the pattern to follow and now?

Now he had work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
